Love Interest(68)

I made dinner plans with Brijesh as a cover-up—although that didn’t end up serving my mental state any better. After researching Strauss Holdings and concluding that his current job and my future dream job are both at risk—honestly, the only safe magazine is Frame, that beautiful behemoth—sitting across the table from Brijesh made me feel like a character from Succession with an inside scoop and no fucking loyalty.

He’ll probably be fine. Brijesh is quasi-famous, and if he gets laid off, another company might find that fame attractive. But he’s told me before about food media hierarchies, how long it takes to work your way up, how competitive that sector of the industry is. He’ll probably be fine, but he might not be good, which was enough guilt to slice me in half. I was quieter than normal all night long. Finally, he slapped a hand on the table and said, “Okay, did you get dumped, or am I about to get dumped?”

I had to remind him neither of us are in real relationships.

Yesterday, the scale was tipped like this: guilt = heavy, missing Alex = a little less heavy. Today, the scale tips in the other direction. I’m practically jonesing for him by five o’clock, when Sasha has a wardrobe malfunction and needs an emergency outfit change between a work event in Murray Hill and another in DUMBO. I meet Alex in the lobby and ask if he’d mind going to my place instead.

“Do I mind,” Alex repeats. “I’ve been dying to see your apartment. Every day, I stare at my whiteboard and ask myself, When will Casey invite me over?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s cramped, and far, and not remotely private if Mir’s home.”

“It’s a window to your soul.”

“Based on that logic, your soul is made up of expensive home goods and blank walls.”

He smirks and shrugs. “I wouldn’t be surprised, but I don’t think I count. My living situation is too ephemeral to have a soul. I haven’t had a real home since I was ten.”

His tone is easy, a throwaway statement, and I don’t think he knows it breaks my heart. I never considered Alex’s place is so bare-bones because he’s not planning to stay in it—or anywhere—for long.

Later, on the subway, out of some instinct to make sure he’ll be okay, I ask, “Are you going to Freddy’s mom’s house next week for Thanksgiving?”

His normal energy is missing today, interrupted by a bout of quiet introspection I’ve begun to realize always manifests whenever there’s a roadblock in Alex’s head. Right now, he’s playing with a lock of my hair and leaning his head against the subway wall behind us. He nods in answer to my question but doesn’t elaborate further, so I let the silence stretch out comfortably, feeling his fingers in my hair and his eyes on me.

“Casey,” he says eventually.

“Alex.”

He leans forward and presses his nose into my hair. “I know you’re worried Dougie’s going to deny the launch out of spite. But I promise you, Simba, I’m going to make that presentation so damn good, even that vengeful man will love it.”

I turn and smile at him a little sadly, relieved he guessed half my fears, so I don’t have to lie about the other half. “Do you really promise?”

“I swear it.” He kisses my hair. “Can I have Casey back now? I’ve been stressed out of my mind just thinking about how stressed you looked yesterday, and I’m usually very easygoing.”

“Well, I’m not easygoing. And I hate mimosas.”

His mouth twitches. “Do easygoing people usually like mimosas?”

“Most.” I shrug. “It’s linked in my mind.”

“Your mind is weird,” Alex says, and when the subway slows to a stop and we stand, he adds, “I’m starving. Is there any good food in Brooklyn?”

I laugh and say nothing.

Inside my place, Alex evaluates our smorgasbord of an apartment with a neutral expression. Eclectic throw pillows strewn over a couch we got for free when Miriam’s sorority updated their interior design, the bar cart stacked with bottles of wine, our freestanding coatrack sentinel beside the front door. There’s even a photo wall of me and Miriam—one picture from every year we’ve known each other.

Alex points at the picture of us covered head to toe in mud, smiling in braces and matching purple T-shirts. “Explain?”

My lips tug up at the memory. “Crud Day at our church. It was a youth group fundraising event they held every year. Mud games, tug-of-war, relay races. The year after that photo was taken, we tried turning our T-shirts into crop tops and got kicked off the premises.”

Alex snorts, scanning the other pictures: backstage passes at CMA Fest in high school, general admission camping at Bonnaroo in college, standing in front of a jellyfish tank during a middle school field trip to the Chattanooga aquarium.

“You were pretty cute.” Alex grins at me.

“You were, too,” I echo, thinking of the two lone photos, sparse but precious, in his apartment.

There’s a knock on the door, and I retreat to my room, leaving Alex to answer it while I riffle through the Ikea rack for the jumpsuit Sasha wanted to borrow. It’s going to stop at her midcalf, but if anyone could make that a look it’s her.

Her voice filters through all five hundred square feet of our place. “You’re a life—oh, hey, Alex!”